Incompetent

My charger broke. My 2-month-old iPhone 5 was stolen. My month old iPhone 5c’s screen is cracked. My speaker input cable is fucked. The car over heated. I have stains of cigarette ash on my white couch. It’s like having short-term memory loss except that I remember. I notice details. Even the littlest details. How I wish Coffea Coffee had different tables so my laptop would have better friction when I move it closer to me. How macbooks should provide a darker shade so cigarette ash won’t make such a stain on my laptop. How birds never really stand really close to one another even though you think they are. And how white isn’t really white, but more of a couple of colours mashed together. In fact, no object is any flat colour, really. Thank’s to the sunlight and shadow. That’s what being clumsy does, or forgetful. It makes you pay attention. It forces you to pay attention. That’s what happens when people keep reminding you about how clumsy you are. How they would just look at you like you aren’t capable of anything, incompetent, they shake their head because you tell them that you know you’re clumsy so you don’t have to be reminded of it yet another time. Trust me, we know. They say you don’t pay attention, they say that you’re not observant, so you try and you try again to improve yourself. It’s like every waking second you remind yourself to pay attention, to listen, to hear, to observe yet something fails to go according to plan and you hate yourself for forgetting that fucking little detail. It’s not a disorder. Although, you wish it were so you have something to blame because otherwise, it’s you. It’s you who is incapable, who is forgetful, who can’t fucking do anything right.